But these now in a miserable plight,
Must in cold blood this massacre abide,
Caus’d by those Villaines (curst aliue and dead,)
That from the field the passed morning fled.
308
When as the King to Crowne this glorious day,
Now bids his Souldiers after all this toyle,
(No forces found that more might them dismay)
Of the dead French to take the gen’rall spoyle,
Whose heapes had well neere stopt vp eu’ry way;
For eu’n as Clods they cou’red all the soyle,
Commanding none should any one controle,
Catch that catch might, but each man to his dole.
309
They fall to groping busily for gold,
Of which about them the slaine French had store,
They finde as much as well their hands can hold,
Who had but siluer, him they counted poore,
Scarfes, Chaines, and Bracelets, were not to be told,
So rich as these no Souldiers were before;
Who got a Ring would scarsly put it on,
Except therein there were some Radiant stone.
310
Out of rich sutes the Noblest French they strip,
And leaue their Bodies naked on the ground,
And each one fills his Knapsack or his Scrip;
With some rare thing that on the Field is found:
About his bus’nesse he doth nimbly skip,
That had vpon him many a cruell wound:
And where they found a French not out-right slaine,
They him a prisoner constantly retaine.
311
Who scarse a Shirt had but the day before,
Nor a whole Stocking to keepe out the cold,
Hath a whole Wardrop (at command in store)
In the French fashion flaunting it in gold,
And in the Tauerne, in his Cups doth rore,
Chocking his Crownes, and growes thereby so bold,
That proudly he a Captaines name assumes,
In his gilt Gorget with his tossing Plumes.
312
Waggons and Carts are laden till they crackt,
With Armes and Tents there taken in the Field;
For want of carridge on whose tops are packt,
Ensignes, Coat-Armours, Targets, Speares, and Shields:
Nor neede they conuoy, fearing to be sackt;
For all the Country to King Henry yeelds,
And the poore Pesant helpes along to beare,
What late the goods of his proud Landlord were.
313
A Horse well furnisht for a present Warre:
For a French Crowne might any where be bought,
But if so be that he had any scarre,
Though ne’r so small, he valew’d was at naught;
With spoyles so sated the proud English are;
Amongst the slaine, that who for pillage sought,
Except some rich Caparizon he found,
For a steele Saddle would not stoupe to ground.
314
And many a hundred beaten downe that were,
Whose wounds were mortall, others wondrous deepe,
When as the English ouer-past they heare:
And no man left a Watch on them to keepe,
Into the Bushes, and the Ditches neare,
Vpon their weake hands and their knees doe creepe:
But for their hurts tooke ayre, and were vndrest,
They were found dead, and buried with the rest.
315
Thus when the King sawe that the Coast was clear’d,
And of the French who were not slaine were fled:
Nor in the Field not any then appear’d,
That had the power againe to make a head:
This Conquerour exceedingly is cheer’d,
Thanking his God that he so well had sped,
And so tow’rds Callice brauely marching on,
Leaueth sad France her losses to bemoane.
FINIS.
TO MY FRINDS THE CAMBER-BRITANS AND THEYR HARP.
Fayre stood the winde for France,
When we our sailes aduance,
Nor now to proue our chance
Longer not tarry,
But put vnto the mayne:
At Kaux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his warlike trayne
Landed King Harry.
And taking many a forte,
Furnish’d in warlike sorte,
Comming toward Agincourte
(In happy houre)
Skermishing day by day
With those oppose his way,
Whereas the Genrall laye
With all his powre.
Which in his height of pride,
As Henry to deride,
His ransome to prouide
Vnto him sending;
Which he neglects the while,
As from a nation vyle,
Yet with an angry smile
Their fall portending.
And turning to his men,
Quoth famous Henry then,
Though they to one be ten,
Be not amazed:
Yet haue we well begun;
Battailes so brauely wonne
Euermore to the sonne
By fame are raysed.
And for my selfe, (quoth hee)
This my full rest shall bee,
England nere mourne for me,
Nor more esteeme me:
Victor I will remaine,
Or on this earth be slaine;
Neuer shall she sustaine
Losse to redeeme me.
Poiters and Cressy tell,
When moste their pride did swell,
Vnder our swords they fell:
Ne lesse our skill is,
Then when our grandsyre greate,
Claiming the regall seate,
In many a warlike feate
Lop’d the French lillies.
The Duke of Yorke soe dread
The eager vaward led;
With the maine Henry sped
Amongst his hench men.
Excester had the rear,
A brauer man not there.
And now preparing were
For the false Frenchmen
And ready to be gone.
Armour on armour shone,
Drum vnto drum did grone,
To hear was woonder;
That with the cries they make
The very earth did shake:
Trumpet to trumpet spake,
Thunder to thunder.
Well it thine age became,
O, noble Erpingham!
That didst the signall frame
Vnto the forces;
When from a medow by,
Like a storme, sodainely
The English archery
Stuck the French horses.
The Spanish vghe so strong,
Arrowes a cloth-yard long,
That like to serpents stoong,
Piercing the wether:
None from his death now starts,
But playing manly parts,
And like true English harts
Stuck close together.
When down theyr bowes they threw,
And foorth theyr bilbowes drewe,
And on the French they flew,
No man was tardy.
Arms from the shoulders sent,
Scalpes to the teeth were rent;
Downe the French pesants went
These were men hardye.
When now that noble King,
His broade sword brandishing,
Into the hoast did fling,
As to or’whelme it;
Who many a deep wound lent,
His armes with blood besprent,
And many a cruell dent
Brused his helmett.
Glo’ster that Duke so good,
Next of the royall blood,
For famous England stood
With his braue brother:
Clarence in steele most bright,
That yet a maiden knighte,
Yet in this furious fighte
Scarce such an other.
Warwick in bloode did wade,
Oxford the foes inuade,
And cruel slaughter made
Still as they ran vp:
Suffolk his axe did ply,
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtyly,
Ferrers and Fanhope.
On happy Cryspin day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay
To England to carry.
O! when shall Englishmen
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed agen
Such a King Harry?
NIMPHIDIA, THE COURT OF FAERY
NIMPHIDIA
THE COVRT OF FAYRIE
Olde CHAVCER doth of Topas tell,
Mad RABLAIS of Pantagruell,
A latter third of Dowsabell,
With such poore trifles playing:
Others the like haue laboured at
Some of this thing, and some of that,
And many of they know not what,
But that they must be saying.
Another sort there bee, that will
Be talking of the Fayries still, 10
Nor neuer can they have their fill,
As they were wedded to them;
No Tales of them their thirst can slake,
So much delight therein they take,
And some strange thing they fame would make,
Knew they the way to doe them.
Then since no Muse hath bin so bold,
Or of the Later, or the ould,
Those Eluish secrets to vnfold,
Which lye from others reading, 20
My actiue Muse to light shall bring,
The court of that proud Fayry King,
And tell there, of the Reuelling,
Ioue prosper my proceeding.
And thou NIMPHIDIA gentle Fay,
Which meeting me vpon the way,
These secrets didst to me bewray,
Which now I am in telling:
My pretty light fantastick mayde,
I here inuoke thee to my ayde, 30
That I may speake what thou hast sayd,
In numbers smoothly swelling.
This Pallace standeth in the Ayre,
By Nigromancie placed there,
That it no Tempests needs to feare,
Which way so ere it blow it.
And somewhat Southward tow’rd the Noone,
Whence lyes a way vp to the Moone,
And thence the Fayrie can as soone
Passe to the earth below it. 40
The Walls of Spiders legs are made,
Well mortized and finely layd,
He was the master of his Trade
It curiously that builded:
The Windowes of the eyes of Cats,
And for the Roofe, instead of Slats,
Is couer’d with the skinns of Batts,
With Mooneshine that are guilded.
Hence Oberon him sport to make,
(Their rest when weary mortalls take) 50
And none but onely Fayries wake,
Desendeth for his pleasure.
And Mab his meerry Queene by night
Bestrids young Folks that lye vpright,
(In elder Times the Mare that hight)
Which plagues them out of measure.
Hence Shaddowes, seeming Idle shapes,
Of little frisking Elues and Apes,
To Earth doe make their wanton skapes,
As hope of pastime hasts them: 60
Which maydes think on the Hearth they see,
When Fyers well nere consumed be,
Their daunsing Hayes by two and three,
Iust as their Fancy casts them.
These make our Girles their sluttery rue,
By pinching them both blacke and blew,
And put a penny in their shue,
The house for cleanely sweeping:
And in their courses make that Round,
In Meadowes, and in Marshes found, 70
Of them so call’d the Fayrie ground,
Of which they haue the keeping.
Thus when a Childe haps to be gott,
Which after prooues an Ideott,
When Folke perceiue it thriueth not,
The fault therein to smother:
Some silly doting brainlesse Calfe,
That vnderstands things by the halfe,
Say that the Fayrie left this Aulfe,
And tooke away the other. 80
But listen and I shall you tell,
A chance in Fayrie that befell,
Which certainly may please some well;
In Loue and Armes delighting:
Of Oberon that Iealous grewe,
Of one of his owne Fayrie crue,
Too well (he fear’d) his Queene that knew,
His loue but ill requiting.
Pigwiggen was this Fayrie knight,
One wondrous gratious in the sight 90
Of faire Queene Mab, which day and night,
He amorously obserued;
Which made king Oberon suspect,
His Seruice tooke too good effect,
His saucinesse, and often checkt,
And could have wisht him starued.
Pigwiggen gladly would commend,
Some token to queene Mab to send,
If Sea, or Land, him ought could lend,
Were worthy of her wearing: 100
At length this Louer doth deuise,
A Bracelett made of Emmotts eyes,
A thing he thought that shee would prize,
No whitt her state impayring.
And to the Queene a Letter writes,
Which he most curiously endites,
Coniuring her by all the rites
Of loue, she would be pleased,
To meete him her true Seruant, where
They might without suspect or feare, 110
Themselues to one another cleare,
And haue their poore hearts eased.
At mid-night the appointed hower,
And for the Queene a fitting bower,
(Quoth he) is that faire Cowslip flower,
On Hipcut hill that groweth,
In all your Trayne there’s not a Fay,
That euer went to gather May,
But she hath made it in her way,
The tallest there that groweth. 120
When by Tom Thum a Fayrie Page,
He sent it, and doth him engage,
By promise of a mighty wage,
It secretly to carrie:
Which done, the Queene her maydes doth call,
And bids them to be ready all,
She would goe see her Summer Hall,
She could no longer tarrie.
Her Chariot ready straight is made,
Each thing therein is fitting layde, 130
That she by nothing might be stayde,
For naught must be her letting,
Foure nimble Gnats the Horses were,
Their Harnasses of Gossamere,
Flye Cranion her Chariottere,
Vpon the Coach-box getting.
Her Chariot of a Snayles fine shell,
Which for the colours did excell:
The faire Queene Mab, becomming well,
So liuely was the limming: 140
The seate the soft wooll of the Bee;
The couer, (gallantly to see)
The wing of a pyde Butterflee,
I trowe t’was simple trimming.
The wheeles compos’d of Crickets bones,
And daintily made for the nonce,
For feare of ratling on the stones,
With Thistle-downe they shod it;
For all her Maydens much did f
eare,
If Oberon had chanc’d to heare, 150
That Mab his Queene should haue bin there,
He would not haue aboad it.
She mounts her Chariot with a trice,
Nor would she stay for no advice,
Vntill her Maydes that were so nice,
To wayte on her were fitted,
But ranne her selfe away alone;
Which when they heard there was not one,
But hasted after to be gone,
As she had beene diswitted. 160
Hop, and Mop, and Drop so cleare,
Pip, and Trip, and Skip that were,
To Mab their Soueraigne euer deare:
Her speciall Maydes of Honour;
Fib, and Tib, and Pinck, and Pin,
Tick, and Quick, and Iill, and Iin,
Tit, and Nit, and Wap, and Win,
The Trayne that wayte vpon her.
Vpon a Grashopper they got,
And what with Amble, and with Trot, 170
For hedge nor ditch they spared not,
But after her they hie them.
A Cobweb ouer them they throw,
To shield the winde if it should blowe,
Themselues they wisely could bestowe,
Lest any should espie them.
But let vs leaue Queene Mab a while,
Through many a gate, o’r many a stile,
That now had gotten by this wile,
Her deare Pigwiggin kissing, 180
And tell how Oberon doth fare,
Who grew as mad as any Hare,
When he had sought each place with care,
And found his Queene was missing.
By grisly Pluto he doth sweare,
He rent his cloths, and tore his haire,
And as he runneth, here and there,
An Acorne cup he greeteth;
Which soone he taketh by the stalke
About his head he lets it walke, 190
Nor doth he any creature balke,
But lays on all he meeteth.
The Thuskan Poet doth aduance,
The franticke Paladine of France,
And those more ancient doe inhaunce,
Alcides in his fury.
And others Aiax Telamon,
But to this time there hath bin non,
So Bedlam as our Oberon,
Of which I dare assure you. 200
And first encountring with a waspe,
He in his armes the Fly doth claspe
As though his breath he forth would graspe,
Him for Pigwiggen taking:
Where is my wife thou Rogue, quoth he,
Pigwiggen, she is come to thee,
Restore her, or thou dy’st by me,
Whereat the poore waspe quaking,
Cryes, Oberon, great Fayrie King,
Content thee I am no such thing, 210
I am a Waspe behold my sting,
At which the Fayrie started:
When soone away the Waspe doth goe,
Poore wretch was neuer frighted so,
He thought his wings were much to slow,
O’rioyd, they so were parted.
Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works Page 144
